2010-05-20 / Musings

Omnific

Rx rx@floridaweekly.com

 

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse w ho   hopes to in  inspire profound mutiny in all   those who   care to read. Our Rx ma y be  wearing a p pir ate cloak of in visibility, but   emanating         from within this shado w is  hope that re  readers will feel free to respond.        Who kno w    kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the   muse. Mak Make contact if you dare. — Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse w ho hopes to in inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a p pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating from within this shado w is hope that re readers will feel free to respond. Who kno w kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the muse. Mak Make contact if you dare. ‘Tis the month of May, month of Mother May Eye, the seeing of oceans of wild flowers, all remembrance of primordial love. This love before all telling manifests as petals both thick as meat and translucent, finer than silk. Of petals given to color and scent each more intoxicating than the last. And goddesses of variety as infinite carry them, flower girls scattering all these petals in the path of perfect bride who is virginmother who is darkest delicacy of crone over and over appearing in the spinning wheel of time. I find myself snuggled deep inside that, dreaming of heart caves and womb caves and the paths leading into them. All sprinkled with perfume and spread with flowers.

I dream navigating these paths. But my most compelling dream, now, comes out of my father’s drawers.

In his bedroom, his man-cave, my father had a chest of drawers. And I had, often, a certain feeling deep within my loins, a feeling nameless and utterly compelling.

This feeling was so wide and so spacious that it had been known to threaten the very edges of my body, living to inspire mutiny of my various and sundry parts, each of which was shooting for secession.

So it was in that space that my father’s bottom drawer compelled me. It was a treasure trove. And inside it were three treasures.

The first was a body treasure, a dermatology text book with hard cover and slick photo paper pages. There were many photographs, all anonymous, all part objects.

The close-up images were caverns of cancerous lesions or mountains of inexplicable pustules. They found themselves misplaced next to noses or on shoulders or in lips. This odd personal geography coerced and compelled my look.

The second was a speech treasure, an out-dated army issue khaki colored very thick introductory psychology text. It contained words I had never seen before, very long words. I would guess at how the words would sound when mixed with air and fleshy human mouth-parts. And I would pet the moving air of the words into storms of authority wearing white and carrying esoteric gadgets of probing and measuring.

The third treasure was all mind. I always saved it for last. This third treasure was like a third rail: electrified bar, bitter speech, and high-flying marsh bird all in one. The third treasure was a large brass plumb-bob. I would shudder holding it, not knowing what use could be made of its sleek heaviness and sharp one-pointedness. I did not dare to ask. Perhaps I did not want the limitation of that kind of knowing.

Now I know. This simple devise, this plummet, an early tool, is still used today. It creates a vertical reference line; it establishes directionality. It also measures depth. So simple, so orienting.

I would never have guessed this to be the function of my relic. It never functioned this way for me. My object had no function other than being in its presence the absence of what it was designed to be. My relic was the absence of orientation, of concept, of the space/time continuum. It was pure presence of an experience that could not be goade3d by words or waffled by numbers. I didn't know it, but for me it was the fascinous, the mystery object that laughs in the face of western psychology posting a unitary self that can be found and measured. If we carried all that we desired on our backs, packed, available for pointing identification, we would have no need of words that attempt to speak of what is absent and can never be found. This word use creates the havoc of ignorance: We believe that we have materialized the inherent existence of what we name. Perhaps the earliest flower garden eviction happened in the naming, in the longing long before the eating of the forbidden.

In the history I recognize as more transpersonal than personal, Mother died mindless, finally able to let go beyond her wildest dreams. Father died asking that he might never be forgotten.

See: All wishes are accomplished, bidden or unbidden. And I am still. Reading between the bottom drawer lines I travel light. And I never need to ask: Mother, may I?

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